A Quick Trip
by regrette rien
Summary: Sherlock and John are on a train, researching for a case, but not everything goes to plan. Or does it? The duo have different ideas about what is and what isn't an acceptable pastime on the train. NOTE: contains slash  J/S , rated M for sexual content.


**Greetings, all. I'm not actually from England, so any mistakes I make in this story while describing England (particularly the way that train-drivers report travel delays), I apologise in advance for. I did try. This story has not been beta'd, although I will gladly accept any advice on how it could be improved/made more accurate. This doesn't mean flames. **

**Disclaimers: I'm writing this story out of pure enjoyment, particularly of the BBC Sherlock series. I don't own any of it, and I intend no infringement of copyright. I am earning no monies from this little exercise in creativity. **

**Please read, review, and above all, enjoy!**

**xRegretteRienx**

"Attention passengers, the track ahead is currently occupied by the 7:45 to Uxbridge, so until that train gets out of the way, I'm afraid we're not going anywhere." The PA switched off, and then a moment later, came alive again. "Er...we would like to apologise for any inconvenience."

The voice was poorly educated, with inelegant vowels and infrequent pronunciation of consonants, but to Sherlock's mild (it would only ever be mild) approval, not employing erroneous syntax, nor were his utterances semantically incorrect.

The crowded carriage that John and Sherlock were caught in had the general British air of anticipated disappointment, in which none of the passengers had actually expected the train to run on time, therefore since it was not doing so, they felt they had nothing to complain about.

"Not like Detroit, ey?" John murmured apropos nothing, apparently into Sherlock's chest. John had previously mentioned the discomfort of being packed into a crowd when shorter than average, and Sherlock, although not quite sympathetic to the doctor's plight, could certainly nowadays observe data that was concurrent with John's explanatory hypothesis.

"Certainly, John. It is a different culture there, after all."

Though they had not experienced this exact situation during their recent case-related journey to the United States, there had irrefutably been enough examples of reactive Americans, frequently and loudly vocalising dissatisfaction with any small inconveniences. The two Englishmen had been quite overcome by the upfront, in-your-face city; even Sherlock with his atypical conduct, had expressed relief at finally setting foot on British soil again. "You know, John," he had said at the airport, "I believe I may need some sleep when we reach Baker street." John had laughed, bitterly, suffering from jetlag, and assuming that Sherlock was being drily ironic, as usual. But then he'd looked at the detective, and seen evidence of strain, of exhaustion, and been amazed. The great Sherlock Holmes had been worn out, by...America? Preposterous.

The lights flickered in the train carriage, it was a particularly older-model train after all, Sherlock had informed John as they boarded; a snippet that he mentioned in passing, as a regular person would casually comment on the weather. There was little reaction elicited in the confined passengers by the flicker, save a few glances upwards, some shuffling of newspapers, and one or two "harrumph"s. Due to the age of the train, and its inactivity, it was therefore not a surprise when the whole thing gave a judder, and silence fell.

The PA crackled. "Sorry folks, that's the heating gone. It'll start again once the train moves again, but I've just been informed that because of the traffic on the tracks in front of us, we've still got approximately a five-minute wait. Sorry."

John sighed, and shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Explain to me again how this experiment in peak-hour public transport commute is useful for our case?" he complained to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked down at him in surprise. Surely John had not forgotten already? He pondered the variables. The doctor had seemed particularly lethargic when Sherlock had leapt into his room that morning, energetically detailing a new bent on a case he'd picked up for himself while perusing The Irish Times (it seemed that in the weeks since John and Sherlock had been back from Detroit that the London crime scene was on leave, and Sherlock had to look a little further for his entertainment); it was conceivable that John had not entirely comprehended all of the information previously provided to him. He didn't have Sherlock's mind, of course.

Fortunately, Sherlock managed to dredge up something resembling compassion towards the other man, and responded, "The killer disguised himself as a train-driver among the morning commuters, John, and there is a distinct possibility that putting ourselves in the shoes of said commuters, we can understand the level of trust or other emotional impact that a train-driver, albeit a false one, would have..."

He drifted off, for John had leant his head forward, and his forehead touched Sherlock's chest. "John?" Sherlock questioned, concerned, perturbed that the cramped circumstances restricted his being able to observe the doctor's features clearly.

John stood up straighter, and rolled his eyes at Sherlock. "It was a _rhetorical_ question," he muttered, a hint of amusement at Sherlock's human-interaction shortcomings, but then he grew more serious. "Please don't mention murderers while on a crowded train," he hissed in a low voice that only Sherlock would've been able to hear, his eyes darting left and right, as though another murderer would appear out of nowhere at the mere mention of the word.

"You are truly astoundingly irrational sometimes, John." Sherlock commented. "It puzzles me."

"Yeah? I'm glad." John said confoundingly, then shivered.

"Are you cold?" Sherlock inquired.

"A bit, yeah." John admitted. "Something to do with being dragged out of bed to go running down the street on a foggy morning, and not being given a chance to grab my damn coat!" John griped, accusing eyes at Sherlock.

"You could have fetched your coat." Sherlock advised him.

"You told me it was an emergency and we had to run! I thought the bloody apartment was on fire!" John admonished the taller man, his hands in fists. He could not have more resembled a petulant child if he had tried. It was somewhat endearing.

"It was not my intention to imply that the apartment was in any danger." Sherlock explained calmly. "But if we hadn't left at that time, we would've missed this train."

"I suppose it's a good thing I didn't have the energy to change into my pyjamas last night, otherwise we'd all be having a right old laugh at my expense now." John rolled his eyes, and huffed.

Sherlock looked at him, amused, then removed his hand from the stirrup hanging from the ceiling of the train (_what an ingenious device,_ one part of his brain had automatically catalogued), and unbuttoned his coat. He drew John in with one arm, wrapped the coat around him, and returned the other hand to gripping the stirrup. One never knew when the train was likely to jerk back into motion, after all.

John took a moment to relax, attempting to maintain his grudge against Sherlock, but who could stay mad at a man who was this passionate, this focused, this brilliant? Especially when being wrapped in his coat was so soothing.

He rested the side of his face against Sherlock's chest, and could feel the regular heartbeat through his skin, as well as hearing it. It was so intimate, he realised, and he shivered again, though this time was not because of the cold.

"Thank you," he murmured, and snuggled as best he could, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist and linking his hands at the back.

"Yet..." Sherlock was musing, looking over John's head, apparently into the middle distance, but undoubtedly memorising every particle in the carriage, and analysing it in detail.

"Yet what?" John tilted his head so he could look at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked down. "Why were you not sufficiently warmed by running from Baker street to the station?" he asked, a small wrinkle between his eyes as he contemplated. "Also, is not the combined body heat of the other passengers providing you with sufficient warmth?"

"Oh, Sherlock! Does it matter?" John grumbled. "The fact is that I feel cold, and the stupid heating giving out isn't helping."

Sherlock returned to surveying the imaginary horizon, and John snuggled back into Sherlock's chest.

It did not seem like the promised five minutes, but finally there was the welcome lurch they'd all been waiting for. John didn't think he'd be so glad to be nearly knocked off his feet by shocking driving skills in his entire life. The fact that the sudden forward momentum caused him to press into Sherlock wasn't altogether unpleasant, either.

The detective grunted a little at the movement, and John glanced up at him rapidly, an apology on his lips despite the fact there was little he could do about the laws of physics. But then he realised.

It hadn't been the effort of remaining upright against the effects of inertia.

No, if anything, John easily surmised at their very close quarters, Sherlock was having more difficulty keeping parts of his anatomy down, not up.

Sherlock refused to make eye contact with John for a moment, but then glanced down, briefly.

His look was not one encouraging further interaction, and this only prompted John to grin devilishly.

If there was one thing that he'd managed to learn from the detective, in his time spent with him first as a friend, and then as a lover, it was that Sherlock Holmes did not "do" public displays of affection. Even just getting him to the point where they could hug or touch one another in public had been an immense task for John. And the current situation, should John take the action he was currently considering, would rate well above a simple display of affection.

Though his jaw was clenched, Sherlock otherwise maintained a mask of perfect calm.

Well, that just wouldn't do, John determined. He shifted his hands and his stance, so that his hands were grasping Sherlock's buttocks through his trousers. He gave them a cheeky squeeze, his actions well-hidden by grace of the every-present coat, and slipped his knee between Sherlock's legs, diminishing the distance between them even more.

John slid his leg up tauntingly, just brushing against Sherlock's groin, and pressing his body closer to him as he lowered his leg again. Sherlock snapped his gaze on John sharply, his breath quickened and shallow, but his expression and his eyes a demanding "no", nostrils flared in a warning of his temper.

It was impossible for John to grin more broadly than he already was. His movements were concealed by the coat, and he was far less concerned by the regard of others in this matter than Sherlock evidently was; it was a curious reversal of roles which John plotted to enjoy greatly.

Keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock's, he moved his hand to the front of the other man's trousers. He thanked all the powers that be to assist mischief-makers, that Sherlock was not wearing a belt this particular day. The detective didn't always include one in his ensemble, and clearly, Murphy's Law was just this once on John's side. He flicked the trouser button open easily, then slowly, torturously, lowered Sherlock's fly.

Sherlock was caught.

If he moved now, he risked revealing his erection and unfastened pants, and gaining a more biting title than "Freak", but besides that, he had no room to even attempt to make any escape. The passengers were packed in, and the train had not reached the next station yet. John had him completely helpless, and Sherlock knew it.

John licked his lips triumphantly, and Sherlock cleared his throat in a conflicted mixture of frustration and physical want. A packed train carriage was hardly his idea of an intimate space, therefore not somewhere he could typically focus his attention on a sexual partner...and yet, his penis disagreed with him...and yet, John was by no means going to let him go...and yet, John was no typical sexual partner, even for Sherlock, and that was saying a lot.

Nimbly, John caught one of Sherlock's belt loops with his finger – there was a difference between causing Sherlock some embarrassment in order to heighten his experience; and humiliating Sherlock entirely. John shifted so that his body covered the part of Sherlock that was not blocked from others' view by the coat. It simply would not do to have them both be arrested for public indecency (it's not a crime if you don't get caught) _...although,_ John mused, _handcuffs..._ He shook his head slightly, and focused on the task at hand, as it were.

In what might've been regarded by some as an entirely un-doctorly manner, he snaked his hand first up, under Sherlock's shirt, allowing the taller man to feel the fleeting delight of his freezy fingers flicking over his nipples, causing the other man to hiss in response, then venturing his hand south, flattening his hand against Sherlock's body in order to draw heat from him.

Sherlock swallowed, nervously, and fidgeted on the spot. John diverted from his hand's descent, and looked up at Sherlock's face. To his credit, Sherlock remained resolutely impassive to most all, and had returned his gaze to its previous level, not drawing attention to John's ministrations by looking at them.

John chuckled to himself. There was no way Sherlock was actually observing at the moment, going by the size of his pupils.

Sherlock's hand on John's shoulder tightened, and John finally slipped his hand into Sherlock's underwear.

Sherlock gasped, and John had to bite his lip hard to refrain from any reaction himself. He still loved even just touching Sherlock's penis – it seemed to him to be perfect in every way – length, girth, the silky sheath embedded in the most lush pubes – John loved to stroke Sherlock's pubes as much as he loved, well, basically every other aspect of Sherlock, to be quite honest.

"John, I – " Sherlock choked out, but was unable to continue, as John had fiendishly and impatiently already curled his hand around Sherlock's erection and had begun stroking in long, slow, firm motions. Sherlock shuddered, trying to maintain control, and rested more of his weight against John. Turned on, he was secreting pheromones, a now-familiar odour which was currently plundering John's nostrils, making the doctor wonder how the other passengers were possibly restraining themselves from leaping on Sherlock and ravaging him senseless.

Stuck for space, and desperate to not draw attention, Sherlock couldn't thrust into John's hand and come as quickly as he wanted to end the torture, and he groaned deep in his throat at the realisation of being utterly at John's mercy.

Taking momentary pity on the detective, John swiftly kissed him lovingly on the lips, as though to say, 'don't worry, I'll take care of you.' Sherlock did not however, seem terribly calmed by the gesture, and closed his eyes in concentration against crying out.

John knew they would shortly arrive at the next station, so he had to be quick, to avoid being disturbed by passengers flowing on and off the train around them. He increased his pace, adding a twist onto the end of every stroke. Sherlock was shaking next to him, his breath hitching, and John suddenly worried that he wouldn't be able to get him off before the next station, since he was limited to only using one hand, and couldn't even use his mouth to bring a conclusion to the detective.

Inspiration, beneficently, shone down upon him.

He slowed his strokes and cleared his throat to get Sherlock's attention. Once those beautiful pale, pale eyes were fixed on his, he smiled and licked his lips tantalisingly.

He glanced down.

Sherlock shook his head, but his traitorous penis impossibly grew harder at John's suggestion of what he was going to do.

John was certain of his actions. He shifted his weight just slightly, just enough to begin to bend his knees. To crouch down the tiniest little bit... Sherlock's hips jerked forwards, and finally, just in time, achieved his release. It was unfortunately all over the inside of his coat, but better that than another passenger, who probably wouldn't take so kindly to it.

Sherlock's orgasm timed neatly with the train's arrival at the station, meaning that nobody around was any the wiser that his movement had not actually been caused by the driver's sadistic braking style. Nor did they pay much attention to his shout of release, which the detective had swiftly managed to convert from "Oh!" to "O-xford Circus!" – the station at which they had just arrived.

Amongst the hustle of people disembarking, John swiftly helped Sherlock back into his pants, and back to a level of decency.

Because there was clearly no point in continuing the study of commuters today; the morning rush was almost complete, the two men alighted from the train. Sherlock still had an arm around John's shoulders as they walked, his nonchalant expression denying the fact that he was actually shaking from the last few minutes on the train, and the amount of effort he'd put into restraining himself.

John, feeling quite proud of himself, and more than a little turned on as well now, helped Sherlock walk to a bench on the platform.

Sherlock slumped onto the bench and sighed deeply. "Dear God, John," he nearly-whispered, a hand draped dramatically over his eyes. "Don't do that to me again."

John sat next to him and gently turned the detective's face towards him. Sherlock's expression was not angry, just exhausted. John kissed him, gently. "What, you didn't like it?" he asked conspiratorially.

"It wasn't that," Sherlock admitted, "and I am especially impressed by your resourcefulness in making me think you were going to give me a blowjob on the train, thereby heightening my emotions such that I could achieve...a resolution."

John smirked at Sherlock's oh-so-analytical summation of the events. "Well, the mind is the most sexual organ after all," John explained, "and yours especially so," he added with a kiss. Then he grinned slyly again. "But what makes you think I wouldn't have gone through with it, had the train not reached the station at that exact time?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and replied, "Elementary, my dear Watson." *

Bemused, John shook his head. Typical Sherlock, back to his enigmatic self.

Having regained his composure in an impossible amount of time, Sherlock checked his watch and stood up. "The next train to Baker street is more than twenty minutes away, and I actually feel like some fresh air. Shall we walk back home?"

John nodded, but did not stand. "Um...could we just sit here for a few minutes?" he asked as innocently as he could.

"Whatever for?" Sherlock demanded, whirling around. "Train stations are boring!"

John chuckled, "I would've thought you had particularly special feelings towards this one, Sherlock," he said teasingly, then in a fair impersonation, he exclaimed "Oxford Circus!" in the way Sherlock had when he had come.

Sherlock darted his eyes around the nearly-empty station, and lunged at John, hushing him. "That was – I was – oh, shut up!" he hissed, and John couldn't help but laugh.

"Can we go, already?" Sherlock whined.

John shifted on the bench. "Just...a few minutes longer."

Something in his voice made Sherlock observe him more closely. His tight jaw, his slightly nervous bearing, and the dead giveaway that he was sitting with his legs crossed.

"Really, John?" Sherlock inquired, tilting his head to try and get a better view. John squirmed. "Well, don't think I'm going to help you out with that here. Come on, we'll get back to Baker street."

John groaned, but knew there was nothing for it. Besides, they'd already had one furtive public encounter today, there really was no need for more risky exhibitionism. They could relax more in the privacy of their own home, after all.

He pressed his hand flat against his crotch, and took a deep breath before standing. "Right," he said decidedly. "This had better be a bloody quick trip."

Sherlock smiled wryly at him. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. You see, I happen to know a shortcut."

"Thought you might." John stated, and the two rapidly exited the station.

Many cobbled alleys, a few dashes across rooftops, and frankly, less staircases than John had expected, later, the two men burst in the front door of 221 Baker street. It was clear that Mrs Hudson was out, since her coat was missing from the hooks near the door.

"Bed, then?" John asked Sherlock, a gleam in his eye.

"I deduce that would be the optimal solution, doctor," Sherlock responded vehemently. "You appear to have a severe condition that requires immediate attention."

-END-

***A/N: I am so, so sorry. It had to be done!**

**Thank you for reading! I hope it wasn't horrendous. Please let me know your thoughts.**

**xRegretteRienx**


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